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When a boy I was wrenched in a gin hidden in a garden of roses: thus am I lame. Later […]

I travel toward a Shrine that is set in a mist—long have I been on the way. I hear dull

There stands that Mute into whose ear the ages have whispered their secrets— There stands that Mute with lusting eye

Death-lights on the scud and the baying of wind in the rigging, the hail on my cheek— Tantara! Tantaro! The

To Carlo de Fornaro. Medusa! I go toward you smiling, serene; my will is granite to your stare, and I